No Escape
by DocII
Summary: Shannon has been kidnapped and disavowed. Grant and Max refuse to believe she's dead and set out to rescue her, despite risking their own lives.
1. Chapter 1

No Escape

by Doc ()

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"Uh oh, buddy, we've got a problem."

Grant glanced up, the undisguised fear behind Max's banal words singing along his nerve endings. They'd been in so many tough situations, beating the odds again and again. Grant knew when Max was confident they'd find a way out. He also knew when Max was covering his own uncertainty. "What's up?"

The SUV skidded into a turn, tires barely holding the road. In the backseat, Grant cradled an unconscious Shannon as he braced his knees against the door.

Max jerked the wheel back to center and accelerated. "They've sent in the cavalry. We've got a couple of tagalongs behind us."

Looping one arm around Shannon's limp form, Grant twisted backward, staring out the wide back window. Two black SUVs, twins to the one Max had appropriated only 5 minutes before, raced along the road, gaining furiously. "Why are they catching up so fast?"

Max shook his head, concentrating on the road. Pouring on the gas as the vehicle straightened out, he winced at the clattering from under the hood. "I think that's why."

Though her eyes remained closed, Shannon moved slightly in Grant's arms, apparently protesting his tight embrace. He shifted on the hard bench seat, pulling her closer to his chest, and looked down at her, concern flooding his features. He slid his hand around her wrist, lips counting soundlessly. "Her heart rate's up, Max, and she's still out of it."

The blond Australian glanced at his teammates in the rearview mirror. "I know, I know." He swerved around a boulder in the road, swearing as the vehicle slewed from side to side. "Did you get Nicolas yet?"

Grant smoothed Shannon's hair back from her face, frowning at the dark circles around her eyes and the hollows of her cheeks. "Nope. I think this canyon's blocking reception."

"Yeah, or maybe our friends have scrambling equipment." Max thought briefly about the forest of antennae poking up from the roofs of the compound where Shannon had been held. "Come on, baby," he urged the SUV, holding his foot to the floor.

They swung into a tight turn, angling up the steep wall of the ancient river bed. Behind them, the black vehicles fell back, merely pacing the operative's stolen car. Grant stared at them, eyebrows drawing together in confusion. "What are they--?"

"GET DOWN!"

An enormous helicopter rose out of the canyon, blades clawing at the dry air. A man sat in the open door, cradling a sniper rifle in his lap. As the bird swung broadside, he raised it to his shoulder.

Max screamed again. "GET DOWN!" The muffled sound of the shot coincided with the window shattering next to Max's head. He threw up his left arm, protecting his eyes. The rifle bucked again, and Max grunted in momentary pain and then slumped to the right, the steering wheel spinning uselessly.

In the back seat, Grant locked his arms around Shannon, dropping them both to the floor of the SUV. He felt the front wheels leave the road, heard the spray of gravel kicking up behind them and then...nothing as they flew off into empty air.

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	2. Chapter 2

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Pain swung back and forth on a pendulum, rising and falling as Grant fought his way to consciousness. Something sharp dug into his cheek and he lifted his head slightly, a movement he quickly regretted as a wave of nausea rolled in his belly. A sudden downdraft of desert air blew a torrent of gritty dust into his face, and he coughed hard, unable to turn away from it.

Accented voices accompanied boots scuffling through the scrub, growing louder as the helicopter blades cut back on power. Grant managed to open one eye and found himself staring at the top of Shannon's head. They both lay against the door of the SUV, which had apparently landed on one side. He struggled to take in a deep breath, gasping at the pain in his ribcage. Shannon didn't move at all.

The voices drew closer, one rising above the rest. "Don't move, you are surrounded!"

Grant froze, immediately recognizing the hoarse voice. The men outside seemed to be directly behind him, next to the roof of the crippled SUV.

"Is he dead?"

"No, sir, but close to it. He's bleeding badly."

A short pause, during which Grant expected to hear the sharp crack of a pistol.

"Good."

Footsteps walked around the vehicle, and then it rocked as someone climbed onto the passenger door directly above Grant and Shannon.

"You inside, you took something of ours. We want it back."

The door yanked back with a loud squeal, raining dirt and particles of metal on the two IMF operatives. Two black-clad men swung inside, bracing themselves on the seat and what was the ceiling. After a cursory glance at Grant, assuring themselves of his helplessness, they scooped Shannon up and vanished out the door again.

Freed of Shannon's weight, Grant managed to get his arms loose and grasped the headrests of the bench seat, hauling himself into a seated position. Above him, another of the others appeared in the opening, along with the business end of a pistol.

"I wouldn't try anything, my friend. We have what we came for. Climb out." The pistol waggled slightly.

Grant sighed, swallowing down a groan as his ribcage complained. He forced himself to his knees, taking stock of his situation. One ankle exploded in pain, and all his muscles burned with the sudden influx of lactic acid. Glancing up at the grim face above him, he shuddered, knowing they had nothing with which to defend themselves. Max's "bag of tricks", a heavy backpack filled with deadly weapons, and his own duffle, full of electronic jammers and explosives, had been abandoned back at the camp where they'd found Shannon. The meticulously planned caper had gone disasterously wrong only moments before they'd managed to escape undetected. Now they'd pay the price. He still had his communicator, though, assuming it hadn't been damaged during the crash.

Clamboring up the steep slope of the bench seat, Grant allowed himself to be dragged from the SUV and tossed to the ground. He lay there, panting heavily, and stared at the smashed remains of their only means of escape.

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	3. Chapter 3

"Who do you work for, eh?"

Behind him, Grant heard the snick of a lighter and a soft intake of breath, followed by the fragrant odor of expensive tobacco floating in the growing breeze. He rolled onto one elbow, favoring his bruised ribs. Shading his eyes with one hand, he stared up into the one face he'd hoped not to ever see in person. Jim's research had filled a fat file with report after report of violence and despair. No one who came into contact with this man walked away with their innocence intact. Involuntarily, Grant's gaze slid to the helicopter, where the men in black were loading Shannon into the back as if she were merely cargo. He swallowed hard against the bile rising in his throat and turned back to the man, saying nothing.

The man took a long drag on the cigarette. His other hand rested on the butt of a heavy automatic pistol, fingers caressing the rubber grip. "You've disturbed my day, you know that?" Another drag on the cigarette, followed by an exaggerated sigh. "I don't like...disturbances." He knelt directly in front of Grant and stared at him, dark eyes unblinking. "Who are you?"

Grant dropped his gaze, fighting to keep calm. Shannon was back in the hands of her captors and would probably be punished for it. She hadn't recognized him when he'd burst into her cell at the compound. Doped up beyond reason, Shannon had fought him, raking torn and ragged nails down his cheek. Grant reached up now and felt the welts.

"That's the least of your problems, my friend." The tall man stood and strode around the nose of the SUV, conferring with his men in the language Grant had no hope of understanding.

A wheezing moan rose from beyond the vehicle, punctuated by a yelp of pain and then nothing. Grant struggled to his knees, ignoring the flare of agony in his ankle. He froze as cold steel pressed against the back of his neck, and then several other men surrounded him.

The man in charge appeared again, wiping his hands on a rag which he dropped on the ground. Bright red blood stained the fabric, weighing it down against the wind's tug. He walked up to Grant again, noting the IMF agent's change in stance. "There's nothing you can do, you might as well make yourself comfortable while I decide what to do with you." He placed one dusty boot on Grant's chest and shoved him backward in the sand. Snarling an order to the guards, he turned and strode to the helicopter, circling the fingers of one hand at the pilot who increased power to the idling blades.


	4. Chapter 4

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The chopper took off, swirling sand every which way. Grant lay on one side, one arm flung over his eyes and the other splinting his aching ribs. Chin tucked to his chest, he held his breath as long as he could, not wanting to inhale half the desert. As the whomp of the blades moved away, he took a chance on looking up.

The three black-garbed guards took a step back, weapons resting comfortably on their shoulders, barrels pointing at the sky. Once the helicopter disappeared over the horizon, they turned and walked away.

Grant frowned, unable to get his head around this development. As the engine of the black SUV kicked over and the guards drove away, he finally go it: there was nowhere for him to go on a broken ankle, and no way for him to get help. Well, perhaps if he could get a little help from his friends, he'd prove them wrong on at least one count. For now though...he rolled onto hands and knees and began crawling around the wrecked vehicle, ignoring the shards of pain emenating from his leg.

The front end of the SUV was crushed back toward the passenger compartment and a wisp of steam still rose from the radiator. Beads of safety glass littered the ground, glinting like diamonds scattered on the sand. Grant rested briefly, resting his forehead on the ground and mouth wide open dragging in the acrid air. His heart pounded with wild speculation. A cry of pain had to indicate that Max was still alive. Then again, the cry had been cut off and there hadn't been so much as a whimper since. Fear flooded through him and Grant rose to his elbows again, dragging his wounded leg behind him.

Max lay on his back, his left leg pinned above the knee beneath the vehicle. The wind ruffled his sweaty hair, blowing it back from his forehead, revealing an already darkening bruise spreading over his right temple. His chest rose and fell erratically, but he was otherwise unnaturally still.

"Max..." Grant's voice trailed off into a ragged groan. Gingerly laying his fingers against the Australian's neck, he counted the man's pulse and sagged in relief to find it strong although faster than he would have liked. He shoved himself to one hip and sat up, freezing as he saw the spreading pool of blood beneath Max's left shoulder. "Oh my God!"

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	5. Chapter 5

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The two men stared at each other across the smooth teak of the wide worktable. Between them lay the tools of their trade: an opened laptop, displaying a real-time display of some sort, a folio of photographs with printed bios of the persons captured there, and most importantly, a communicator, ominously silent.

Nicholas cleared his throat but didn't speak, leaving Jim time to absorb all the information he'd just given him. He laced his fingers together over his chest and concentrated on breathing in and out, slowly and deliberately. And waited.

"Are you sure the communicator is working?"

With a sigh, Nicholas reached for it, thumbing the channel selector and then tapping the send button. A tiny beep sounded in Phelps' pocket, and the older man withdrew his own radio, its indicator light flashing red to identify the incoming signal.

"Well, I guess it is." Jim waved a hand at the computer. "Show me again their last location."

Nicholas typed a few commands on the keyboard and a 3-D map appeared. A few further keystrokes revealed a dotted red line that entered the map from the northern edge and meandered southward, skirting the marked camps and military installations. About two thirds of the way down the screen, the line made an abrupt westerly turn and then ended on a mountain road.

Leaning in, Jim studied the simulated terrain. "Looks like they managed to free Shannon and escape along the road. But why have they stopped?" He refused to raise his eyes to Nicholas', refused to see confirmed those things he feared.

The other man frowned, then reached for the laptop. "You know, Jim, we're only seeing Max's trail here. I wonder what would happen if we traced Grant." He hit another key.

A green line appeared beside the red, following the same long trek across the desert and the same sudden turn. But where the red dots ended, the green doubled back and then took a more direct route back to the stylized computer generated encampment.

"What the hell does that mean? Did something happen to Max? Or was Grant captured?" Phelps stood and in two steps was at the rail of the sleek sailboat. He stared at the rolling azure waters, squinting in the bright sunlight bouncing off the waves.

Nicholas shook his head, wondering the same things and more. Why was nobody answering their communicators? Had the men found Shannon and affected a rescue? Had they managed to escape capture or had they, too, become prisoners of the insane self-proclaimed Master? He pulled his glasses from his face, squeezing the bridge of his nose between the thumb and index finger of one hand. After a moment, he replaced the spectacles and turned back to Grant's baby, the souped-up laptop, and began tapping the keys.

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	6. Chapter 6

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The desert wind rose into a howl, blinding Grant and clogging his nose and throat. He crouched over his unconscious teammate, shielding him from the maelstrom. After a moment, the wind died away again, giving Grant the opportunity to examine Max more closely. He slipped one hand beneath the man's left arm and felt the warm flow of blood over his fingers. Grabbing at Max's shirt, he ripped it away from the wound and saw the neat bullet hole centered in Max's armpit. Wadding up the remains of the shirt, he shoved it against the wound and applied pressure, wincing as Max groaned and tried to shift away from the pain.

"Max? Can you hear me?" Grant leaned in, looking for an exit wound and not finding one. "Max?"

The Australian rolled his head from side to side, eyelids twitching. He coughed once, then again, smearing a thin line of blood across his lips. "Grant?" His voice was the faintest whisper.

Grant closed his eyes for a second, giving silent thanks for answered prayers. "Max, you gotta tell me where it hurts." He lowered Max's left arm against the makeshift bandage in the hopes that the position would keep enough pressure to control the bleeding while he triaged the rest of Max's injuries. "Come on, man, you gotta help me." He ran trembling hands over his teammate, relieved to not find any other life-threatening injuries. The bullet wound was bad enough, and that left leg, pinned under the SUV…

"Where's…Shannon?" Blue eyes fluttered open, wildly unfocused. Max twisted his neck until he found Grant. He coughed again and groaned, his breath whistling audibly.

Grant peeled his own shirt off and folded it into a thick pad. He added it to the original bandage, already blood-soaked. "They took her." Sitting back, he gingerly rested his broken ankle in the sand. He glanced up and realized the sun would be setting in a few hours. Not nearly long enough for Nicholas and Jim to find them and affect a rescue.

He and Max were on their own.

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	7. Chapter 7

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"Communicator,,,."

The voice was no louder than a whisper and barely broke through the haze of Grant's stupor. He lifted his head from the sand, realizing with a terrifying rush that he'd come close to passing out. Rolling onto his hands and knees, Grant suppressed a moan as his aching ribs announced their presence yet again. The pain in his ankle flared and he dropped his head to his hands, willing the agony to fade.

"Grant…"

Max's voice held an ominous gurgle. Forcing himself to sit up, Grant scooted over closer to his friend and leaned in close. The late afternoon sun slanted across the upturned wheels of the SUV, casting a broad shadow where Max lay. A dribble of blood tracked from the corner of his mouth across his chin, dripping down his neck to the sand. The wheezing Grant heard earlier had progressed to an odd whistling sound with each struggling breath. Grant leaned close.

"I'm here, buddy."

Max reached up with the hand not splinted against the bandage and gripped Grant's wrist with surprising strength. "Get Jim…Nick."

Grant shook his head. "They took my communicator. Besides, these canyons are killing the transmission." He gently pulled his hand free and checked the bullet wound. The bleeding had slowed, but not stopped. Shaking his head, Grant stared off into the canyon, his mind racing to put together some sort of solution to their dilemma before Max bled out.

"MY…comm…." Max coughed, spraying blood everywhere.

Grant shot to his knees. "WHERE?"

Max struggled to breath, his panicked eyes wide in a face far paler than Grant had ever seen. Finally he managed to suck in enough air to speak. "Boooot…"

Grant stared at him a moment longer, than dragged himself frantically over to the SUV, unlacing Max's right boot and hauling it off. There, in a lump under Max's sock, was a communicator. Grant blinked in frank amazement, and then removed the instrument. Just as he thought, no reception. The adrenaline bounding through his body had no release.

"You…gotta…get…high…er…" Max's eyes pleaded with him, the fingers of his right hand digging into the sand. He coughed, deepening the lines on his face with pain. "High…"

Grant looked again at the canyon walls, then shook his head. He knew he'd never leave Max behind.

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	8. Chapter 8

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Nicholas adjusted his sunglasses, pulling down the brim of a battered baseball cap. Dressed in cut off grease-stained khaki pants and an old workshirt, he felt as if he'd stolen the get-up from Max's closet. He chewed half-heartedly on a length of beef jerky, which had in fact come from Max's fishing tackle box. Resisting the urge to spit out the gritty pieces, he glanced over his shoulder into the little office where Jim argued with a short, squat little man.

"I'm tellin' ya, old man, I ain't got any birds for rent. Especially without a flight plan." The man leaned back in his desk chair and rested his hands across his not-unimpressive belly. "Ain't nothin' personal, ya understand." He attempted a grin, but it failed to reach his eyes.

Jim folded his own arms over his chest and fixed the man with a hard glare. "I can see that you've got a Huey out there. I know it flies because I saw it come in just this morning." He sat on the edge of the desk, dislodging a pile of papers that slid to the floor. He ignored the mess, and reached over, stopping the man from picking them up. "I also know you run both guns and drugs and alcohol on a regular basis." He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a flat wallet, flipping it open and flashing it before the man's startled eyes. "Unless you want to come in and talk to us for a, well, probably at least eight to ten years, I think you might find that bird has become available."

The man swallowed audibly, his adam's apple working its way up and down his fat neck. "I dunno if it's got any fuel onboard." His eyes remained fixated on the ID until Jim snapped the wallet closed and replaced it inside his jacket.

"I think you'll find it's fueled. Or will be in the next 30 minutes." Jim tossed a thick envelope on the desk and turned to leave. "My pilot will be waiting." He didn't look back as he walked away.

Nicholas didn't appear to make any kind of greeting to Jim, but his eyes, hidden by the dark glasses, followed the tall man as he strode past him and toward the waiting limousine. With a sigh, he shoved himself up right and sauntered across the hard packed earth. "Mr. Phelps? We got a bird?" His accent was as redneck as his appearance.

Jim turned around, but didn't look at Nicholas, instead watching the office. "Yes we do. Just make sure you go over the preflight checklist exactly as I told you. They don't know who's going to be flying that thing."

Nick allowed himself a tight smile, then turned back to the office and wandered through its crooked screen door.

Climbing into the limo, Jim pulled a small device from his pocket. He looked at the screen. The red dot was still there, still stationary. He swore under his breath, and resisted the temptation to toss the device out the window.

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	9. Chapter 9

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By the time the helicopter settled on its skids, half its occupants were already out on the pad, duck-walking away from the disc. As the pilot cut power to the rotor, the leader of the group slid to the ground, lighting a cigarette as he paused by the door. He glanced up as his men returned with a stretcher, crouching over again as they ran up to the bird. Satisfied with their loading of the woman, he issued a few commands and then turned away, headed for a small building on the edge of the landing zone.

The door opened before he could reach for the latch, and he paused for a moment, wary eyes tracking around the compound and finding nothing out of the ordinary. He proceeded through the door and pulled it closed behind him.

"What did you find, Mahmood?"

The voice, smooth as silk, rolled toward him from the far corner of the room. The only light in the place emanated from multiple computer screens and one large flat-panel television. A movie played silently on the tv, a poorly made western starring unknown Pakistani actors. Mahmood glanced at it briefly, snorting, and turned his attention to the man reclining on a battered sofa that crouched against the wall. Guards stood on either side, sidearms holstered but clearly watching Mahmood's approach warily.

"What did you find?" The man sat up, dropping his feet to the floor and leaning forward impatiently.

Mahmood moved closer and kept his hands in sight. He drew a final drag from the cigarette and then stubbed it out in an ash tray next to an array of computer equipment. The young man shot him a dirty look which Mahmood ignored.

"I retrieved the woman. Of the two men who took her, one is seriously wounded and will not last more than another hour. The other will not last the night. If the cold doesn't finish him off, or the wolves," he allowed himself a tight grin, "we will take the chopper back. In the meantime…" Mahmood gestured to the young man and pointed at the big screen. A moment later, the movie pixilated and became a shot from a stationary camera of a black SUV on its side. A black man crouched by it, his back to the camera.

"Terrible focus." The voice, though gentle, hinted of retribution if the picture wasn't fixed. A second later it was.

The man was tending to another man trapped beneath the SUV. Surely dramatic music would have swelled in the background, instead there was the steady rush of wind.

"Very nice, Mahmood." The man caressed his goatee, eyes glinting behind his overlarge glasses.

"Thank you, sir. He doesn't know about the camera."

"I didn't think he would. You don't disappoint, Mahmood."

"Thank you." Mahmood inclined his head slightly, as much of a bow as he would permit the man, despite knowing his life was on the line at any moment's displeasure.

"You may go now. Please check the condition of my…prize. If these two look like that," the man pointed at the screen, "she may need medical attention herself."

"Yes, sir." Mahmood wasted no time backing out the door and vanished into the lengthening shadows of early evening.

The man settled back on his sofa, never once taking his gaze from the screen.

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End file.
